


look into your eyes (and the sky's the limit)

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: “Wanna have sex?” she asks, so bluntly she surprised herself.“What’s in for me?” he asks back.She scoffs, loud. “You mean, beside sex?”





	look into your eyes (and the sky's the limit)

Rosaline isn’t certain what the last straw is - perhaps the way Escalus keeps smiling at the girl in front of him, or how he laughs so loudly she can hear him over the music. Maybe it’s all the bullshit about being ‘just friend’ or the obvious lie in his ‘I’m just not ready for a relationship now’. Because he seems to be ready alright for the pretty latina in front of him. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s how he hasn’t looked at her once tonight, despite knowing she’s here with Isabella and Juliet. 

Perhaps it’s that, and the bitterness on her tongue that has Rosaline finishing her drink in one gulp before standing up. She isn’t drunk enough to sway on the spot after only one glass, so she is pretty sure her string of thoughts is due to her own stupidity instead of the alcohol. Whether she is grateful for it or not remains to be seen.

Juliet calls after her, but Rosaline is already long gone, moving through the crowd of people. Some she recognises from university, other are strangers, and she starts dancing to the music before she takes her pick. The options are endless, but she is too salty and too heartbroken to just choose some random guy. She wants to hurt Escalus as much as he hurts her, wants to show him what he is missing.

People move and she spots the perfect man.

Ignoring the hands someone puts on her hips, Rosaline dances closer to the Montague. He already has another girl in his arms but Rosaline doesn’t care, pushing the girl aside until he’s facing her. Even under the neon lights, his eyes are blue, and wide with surprise. No hatred in them quite yet, not even when she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him to her until she can speak in his ear.

“Wanna have sex?” she asks, so bluntly she surprised herself.

And him, if his gasp is anything to go by. But his hands find her waist, his hold on her tighter than she would have thought, his hips rocking against hers to the rhythm of the song. His hard-on is impossible to miss; she doesn’t know if it’s from her or from the girl before, and finds that she doesn’t care about the answer.

“What’s in for me?” he asks back.

She scoffs, loud. “You mean, beside sex?” He nods against the side of her head even as he keeps dancing. “A chance to piss off Verona’s royalty.”

The feud between Montagues and Capulets may be well-known, but so is both families’ hatred of the Princes. Perhaps because Escalus’ father has been mayor for as long as she can remember, with every politician and all the cops in his pocket. Perhaps because the people of Verona don’t need much to hate each other. It doesn’t matter, really, beside the gleam of something in the Montague’s eyes.

“Okay.”

And, before she knows it, he’s grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the crowd of dancers. Before she knows it, he’s dragging her to the bathroom, making sure to walk past Escalus along the way, with an infuriating smirk for the other man who all but forgets about the girl he was flirting with. Before she knows it, Rosaline finds herself locked in a bathroom stall, with the Montague’s mouth on her and his fingers under her skirt.

It goes so fast it almost gives her whiplash, until his finger flicks against her clit and she swallows down a moan. He chuckles against her lips, enjoying himself far too much for his own good, so Rosaline retaliates by opening his jeans and grabbing him. He groans, low and guttural, and she is the one to smirk this time.

Everything is a blur of hands and desperate motions after than, finding a condom in his back pocket, pushing his jeans down and her panties to the side, groaning at the same time when he enters her with little finesse. Rosaline’s foot is on the toilet bowl for support, her other leg wrapped around the Montague’s hip, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs as he keeps thrusting against her - there is something oddly arousing about the situation, about knowing that anyone could hear them, could catch them in the act.

She has never been only for public indecency - or indecency of any kind - so the fact that she is so turned on by it takes her by surprise. And it doesn’t help that the Montague knows exactly what he is doing, his teeth against her shoulder and his fingers playing with her clit, matching the fast rhythm of his hips.

For a moment, she can only focus on the sound of skin slapping against skin and her own breathless moans, until her muscles flex around him, until a sharp cry escapes her at her orgasm. Waves of pleasure have her trembling so much she barely notices the Montague coming inside of her after a few more seconds, she barely notices his groan against her neck.

Her legs are still trembling when they find the ground again, her body coated with a layer of sweat. The Montague’s hair is a mess - did she do that? - and his eyes still hazy, which. It’s a good look on him, she guesses, especially with the smirk on his lips. Cocky, but rightfully so.

“Well, that was a pleasure,” he tells her as he zips back his jeans.

He leaves the bathroom first, letting Rosaline time to gather her thought and pull her skirt down and wonder how the hell this was the best sex in her life so far. Better even than with Escalus, and they were dating for almost a year.

Escalus who’s still there when she gets out of the bathroom, and she ignores him as she walks back to the table she shared with Juliet and Isabella. The first looks at her in shock, the second with something akin to pride in the slope of her smile, but Rosaline ignores them both as she grabs her purse and leaves the bar.

She’s had too much for one night.

Or perhaps not enough.

 

…

 

Rosaline slams the bottle of vodka a little forcefully on the counter, all the glasses shaking in reply. She glares at them as if they personally offended her, before she opens the bottle and pours herself a drink. Even with the door to the kitchen close behind her, she can hear Livia’s cheers and Juliet’s happy laughter, which makes everything all the more infuriating.

Because of course her cousin had to elope with Romeo.

Of course she had.

And now everyone is acting like it’s not a big deal, that her baby cousin is married a few weeks before college and still hasn’t told her parents. Because it’s romantic, Livia says. Because you don’t give her enough credit, Isabella says. Because I love her, Romeo says. And Rosaline is left fuming in a corner, a forced smiled on her lips as she watches her cousin ruining her life for a pretty face and a vague idea of love.

The door opens, murmurs of conversation growing louder then fainter again, before she hears a muttered “Oh fuck.” Rosaline doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is, a shiver running down her spine at his voice. Still, turn around she does, facing him with a scowl on her face and her fists on her hips.

“You knew.” It is less of a question than an affirmation. “You knew and you let them go through it.”

The Montague frowns back at her, taking a large intake of breath as if to brace himself for the fight to come. “You knew too, and I didn’t see you trying to stop them either.”

“They took your car, Montague. How is this not your fault when  _ they took your car _ ?”

He takes a menacing step forward, but Rosaline doesn’t move back. He doesn’t scare her, and offers the perfect way to let out her frustration - as angry as she feels, and not caring in the least if he hurts her feelings, or she his. Every time they fight, he gives as much as he takes, which makes him the perfect recipient for her wrath right now.

He laughs, too, the sound hollow. “Typical Capulet, always blaming things on other people.”

“Typical Montague, never owning up to anything.”

He tilts his head to the side, when he replies, “Well maybe if someone hadn’t led Romeo on for so long, we wouldn’t be there right now. It’s your fucking fault he met Juliet at that party, since he was looking for  _ you _ .”

Rosaline forces herself not to yell, and her fingers tingle with the slap the Montague deserves. Still, she takes a step closer too, until she has to look up to meet his eyes. Later, she will not remember what she replies, and what he argued back. Later, she will be unable to say who won their fight, who had the best arguments. All she’ll know is that, during those few minutes, it felt good letting her anger out and not fearing the consequences, just putting everything out in the open.

And then, there is a moment when the Montague steps into her personal space, her breasts brushing his chest, his breath hot again her face. She doesn’t miss the way he looks down at her mouth, then up again, doesn’t miss the way her stomach clenches in anticipations. The memories are still too fresh in her mind, her body buzzing with desire for a second round.

The Montague must notice, for his eyes turn darker as his hand reaches her waist, squeezing for a moment. “Come home with me tonight.”

She does.

 

…

 

Her back slams against the wall, taking her breath away in a low chuckle, before the Montague’s lips are on hers and his hands are working on the buttons of her jeans. She bites down on his bottom lip, making him hiss in pain before he kisses her again and tugs her jeans down her thighs.

“Can’t believe that turns you on,” she mocks against his mouth.

“Shut up,” he replies, getting rid of his own shirt.

What should have been a peace dinner between Capulets and Montagues, to celebrate their children’s wedding, unsurprisingly turned into a shouting match before dessert. Her aunt started attacking everything and everyone, and Romeo’s father was quick to shout back, before it became a mess of angry yelling and old arguments. One of the Montague cousins made a crude remark about Juliet’s vertue and, one thing leading to another, Rosaline found herself yelling at Benvolio Montague. Again.

Until he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into an empty guest room, to attack her with his mouth instead of his words. Not that Rosaline minds, because the man may be repulsive but at least he knows how to use his hands and his tongue.

Rosaline smirks at him before she pushes him down to his knees with her hands on his shoulders, the message clear enough. The Montague only grins at her before he bites on the flesh of her thigh, making her gasp.

“Because it makes you totally indifferent.”

She kicks him lightly then puts her leg over his shoulder. With a press of her heel at his back, she pushes him closer to her. He doesn’t even bother slipping her panties down her legs, instead pushing them to the side and diving in. Rosaline gasps at his tongue on her, her head falling back against the wall, her hand grabbing his hair. She guides him where she needs him the most, and bites down on her free hand not to let out a moan of pleasure. She can feel her orgasm slowly building, muscles tensing until she’s afraid she can’t stand up anymore and.

And someone slams a door.

The Montague startles away from her, falling on his arse and staring up at her with wide eyes. Another door slams, closer this time, so Rosaline pulls her jeans back up no matter how frustrating it is. The Montague stands up, his chin glistening, and grins at her before he kisses her again. Rosaline tastes herself on his tongue, moaning a little - it only makes things worse, her body screaming at him to continue, to offer her the release.

“I’ll see you around,” he says instead, stepping away.

The last thing Rosaline notices is the Montague wiping his mouth before he leaves the room, before he leaves her alone and aching.

 

…

 

“My place.”

The music is loud and her head pounds, her eyes barely focusing on his face. She grimaces, just a little, at the demand he manages to contain into those two words. Any other day, she would have said yes. Would have gone home with him and had sex and enjoyed herself. But she feels exhausted after days of exams, only going out because Livia asked, and she’s so fucking tired she feels like dying.

“Not tonight.”

He shrugs and moves away, finds some blonde girl instead. Sierra or Sasha or whatever her name is. It doesn’t matter anyway.

 

…

 

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

Rosaline doesn’t turn around to look back at him, only shrugs her reply as she continues on her inspection of his room. It is not her first time in the Montague’s apartment, but it is her first time staying the night - they came back from the bar so late, and stayed up even later, and she didn’t feel like calling a Uber when there was a comfortable bed right there. And a comfortable pair of arms.

But now, basking in the morning sun and tiptoeing her way around the room, Rosaline cannot help but be curious. She knows very little about the Montague, beside the fact that he studies art history at university and can drink her under the table every week. She knows his body more than she knows his mind, which. Maybe she’s overthinking this.

“Lots of books on the Renaissance,” she states, her fingers brushing against the spines of books on his shelf. He has one or two novels, and a few books of poetry, but most of his stuff is about art and painting.

“What can I say,” comes his mumbled voice from under the pillow. “Michelangelo is the man.”

She snorts a little, even more so when the Montague groans and hides even deeper under the blankets. It’s barely even eight, but Rosaline is used to waking up early as to not hear her aunt complain about how lazy she is - a feature her sex buddy obviously doesn’t share.

She continues her discovering of his bedroom, moving from the shelves to the desk. Tubes of paint, brushes and pencils are scattered all over it, one wooden mannequin looking like it’s seen better days, and wrinkled paper everywhere. Rosaline grabs one notebook, and flicks through it.

It’s mostly sketches of buildings and landscapes, with the occasional study of a hand or half a face. She recognises Mercutio’s grin, or Romeo’s face, even Isabella’s hair at some point. There is no denying the Montague’s talent, capturing vivid images in only a few brushes of his pencil. Another notebook is full of watercolours, and she takes it before going back to bed, turning the pages and admiring his art.

“You’re good. Like, really good.”

The Montague raises his head, hands still holding the pillow on top of it, and groans some more when he notices what she is holding. “That’s from two years ago, it’s shit.”

Her mouth opens in surprise, even more so when he snatches the notebook from her and throws it to the other side of the room. Instead, he grabs his phone and opens it, flicking through the pages before handing the device to her. It’s opened on one album, pictures after pictures of his art. She goes through them slowly, admiring the difference - everything is more detailed, like jumping out of the page. A portrait of Romeo. A study of Juliet’s summer dress, a quick sketch of Mercutio and Livia playing in the pool. 

And then bodies.

Her body.

The curve of a hip, the details of a shoulder, a study of the sun reflecting on her dark skin, dozen and dozen of crossed-out sketches of her hair - ponytails and waves and braids, never getting it quite right, always struggling with the texture. One particularly beautiful drawing of her mouth, opened into a moan, that has her blushing. Her body stretched on a bed, her fingers gripping sheets, her breasts and hips and legs.

“That’s… Yeah, that’s really good.”

 

...

 

“This is ridiculous!”

“No, I swear it’s the truth, he just…”

“It’s just made up, like the story with the baby chicks and the dead cow and…”

“Why would I be lying, come on.”

“Marilyn Manson can’t suck his own dick, that’s impossible!”

“Not if he got a few ribs removed.”

“ _ Oh my god, Benvolio _ ! Listen to yourself! … What? Did I say something?”

“No… No, nothing.”

“You’re just saying that so I will suck your dick.”

“Well, if it works.”

“ _ You’re _ a dick.”

 

…

 

The beach party was Mercutio’s idea, all of them piling up in a car and driving to the ocean. It’s been a hot summer, clothes and hair sticking to her skin and sleepless nights staring at the ceilings, so Rosaline had looked forward to jumping in the water and not feeling like she is about to melt for the first time in weeks.

Someone - probably still Mercutio - makes a fire once the sun is setting, and they all gather around with music and s’mores and easy laughter bubbling out of their chests. It’s the kind of evening Rosaline loves above all else - just the whole of them together, away from the family feuds and Verona, away from everything. Under the stars, there is no Capulets and no Montagues, only them and their friendship and Juliet kissing Romeo until everyone else groans.

Livia picks the playlist at some point, changing it to something with more rhythm to it, and it doesn’t take long before everyone is dancing and laughing, singing the lyrics on the top of their lungs. Mercutio hits impressive notes on his rendition of a Spice Girls song, and Isabella shows some nice dancing skills to Shakira. Rosaline laughs and laugh and laughs until her lungs are burning and she takes a break closer to the fire, bottle of water in her hand and grin on her lips.

Benvolio falls on the ground in front next to her, sand going everywhere, and smirks up at her with that boyish smile of his, the one with the dimples in his cheeks and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. She loves that smile, carefree and adorable.

“Having fun?” she asks.

“No,” he answers with the certainty of someone who is already a little too drunk. “Because you’re here, and everybody is there, and I can’t have fun if you don’t.”

She smiles, only a little. He’s actually quite endearing, once he drops the moody fucker act and allows himself to be, well, himself around people who are not Romeo or Mercutio. Turns out Benvolio Montague is funny, and witty, and quite handsome too.

“I’m tired,” she tells him, because she is. It’s late, and she spent the day swimming, and she very much feels like falling asleep right now, on this beach, next to this fire.

“I know how to keep you awake.”

“Here?” she laughs. “For everyone to see?”

His grin turns a little more mischievous as he leans his face against her thigh and looks up at her through his lashes. He’s drunk, she reminds herself; he’s only flirting so openly because he’s drunk and won’t remember it tomorrow.

“You’re into this shit,” he teases and, yes, he’s definitely slurring his words now.

“And you’re drunk.”

“Sure, whatever.” He shrugs with one shoulder, his eyes closing for way longer than a blink. “Whatever. We can have sex for breakfast instead, those fuckers will still be asleep anyway. Can even do it in the ocean, or something.”

They don’t do it in the ocean the following morning, but he was right. Everybody else is still asleep, and he makes her come twice before the sun rises.

 

…

 

One of her arms is slung around his neck, swaying to the music. First day back at university, and Mercutio is already dragging them to all the hottest parties on campus. Usually, Benvolio would be nowhere to be seen, or somewhere to be seen with someone at his arm. But tonight he’s against her, one hand on her hip and the other in her hair, kissing her neck into hickeys that will not show on her dark skin.

Rosaline doesn’t want to think about what it means - first party of the year and her hands are all over him, and the kind of message it sends.

“Let’s get out of here,” he tells her between two songs.

She doesn’t see why she would say no. 

 

...

 

She wakes up to small huffs of laughter, soft in the silence of the bedroom, and turns around to look at him. Benvolio is half-sitting in bed, looking down at his phone - the screen dimmed down not to be too bright,  either for her sake or his own - and typing a text every so often before chuckling again. Rosaline frowns at the sight, just a little.

“Are you flirting with other girls while I’m still in your bed?”

Benvolio’s smile turns gentler as he raises a arm for her to snuggle against his chest, putting it around her shoulders to keep her close. She closes her eyes, the phone still too bright for her so early in the morning, and basks in the warmth of Benvolio’s body. He’s always so soft and comfortable when he wakes up, and she could so easily fall back to sleep like this if she wanted.

“It’s Mercutio,” he replies with another chuckle. His arm moves against her as he types something else, before he adds, “He’s been replying to all my texts with lines from Hamilton, and he thinks I haven’t noticed yet.”

That brings a smile to Rosaline’s lips, and she fights against the brightness of the screen just in time to read ‘gtg Rose is awake’ followed by Mercutio’s ‘I hope you’re satisfied’. It makes her laugh too, even more so when Benvolio discards his phone with a deep sigh, before he grins down at her. She’s always known, deep down, that he was attractive, but there is something about him first thing in the morning, lids still heavy with sleep and hair in a mess of curls, that makes him so handsome it takes her breath away.

His hand moves to cup her cheek, then further up to run into her hair. It’s neither braided nor in a weave for once but in its natural state, a cloud of black curls around her face. He grabs it on both side of her head, and drops a kiss on her forehead that makes her blush a little, though he couldn’t tell.

“You should wear it like that more often.”

“Yeah well,” she starts, even if she doesn’t know where to go from there, how to explain. “It’s more complicated than that, and people…”

“Who cares about people? People are racist. Fuck people.”

Rosaline laughs with surprise at his words - sometimes, it’s so easy to forget his cousin is a black man and his best friend Armenian, so easy to forget he’s not the typical jock she thought him to be at first. She moves around until she straddles him, sitting on his hips with a grin.

“You’re not too bad for a white boy.”

Benvolio snorts a little, before he replies, “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”

She’s not certain herself, but Rosaline doesn’t linger on that for too long. Instead, she leans forward and captures his lips into a kiss that Benvolio too happily deepens, one hand on her neck while the other finds her hip. His mouth is a little stale after a night of sleep, but she doesn’t really care about that when his body is solid and warm beneath her, when she starts moving slowly and makes them groan at the same time.

They are still naked from last night, and he grows harder against her center with each roll of her hips, until Rosaline has no other choice but to lean to the side and grab a condom on his bedside table. Unlike so many times before, it doesn’t go faster from there, their kiss slow and lazy, their hands exploring the other’s body with care and delicacy.

Benvolio’s stomach clenches when her hand moves down his body, a low chuckle against her mouth turning into a groan as she wraps her fingers around him, guiding him inside of her. She lowers herself on him, inch by inch, her own breath stuttering in her throat a little at the feeling of fullness. He kisses her jaw, her neck, her cheek, tightening his grip on her hips until Rosaline is certain it will bruise. It takes a certain kind of restraint for him not to move, though, letting her set the pace with the rocking of her hips and her hands on his chest.

Warmth pools within her stomach faster than she would have thought, her legs clenching against his hips befpre Benvolio’s hand move between her legs, his fingers flicking her clit. Her head drops to his shoulder, her breaths turning into moans until her entire body is shaking with her orgasm. She chuckles against the skin of his neck and it turns into a surprised laugh when he flips them over to be on top.

It only takes him a few more seconds and uneven trusts to come to, with a groan of her name on his lips that she swallows into a kiss. This is the moment she likes best, the bliss that comes after with his body weighing down on her and his lazy kisses, fingers drawing mindless patterns on her skin.

She has no idea how long they remain like this, minutes or hours, before Benvolio shifts on the bed and pulls her with him until he’s on his back again and she’s pressed against him. Her finger draws circles around his nimple, his still playing with her hair - it is simple and quiet and peaceful, a small miracle.

“There are no other girls,” he tells her softly. Rosaline raises her head to frown at him. “Or boys, or whatever. No one.”

Her mouth turns dry, her tongue like steel, and Rosaline can only manage a shrug. “It’s your life, you can do whatever…”

“No,” he cuts her a little too loudly. Her breath catches in her throat at the gravity of his words, when he adds, “There is no one else, Rose. Hasn’t been in a long time.”

And she knows he is not only talking about sex, and she knows what it means. She’s only ever had sex with him since this thing started, because it was convenient, because he was one phone call away and always eager. But Benvolio had other people on the side, going out with his friends every night and coming home with someone by his side. Rosaline had never asked for this thing to be exclusive, had never expected him to stop whatever he was doing.

But he did.

For her, he did.

“Not even…” she starts, unable to remember the name of the pretty blonde at the bar. Sophia? Sarah? Her name never mattered to Rosaline, and so she never learnt it.

“Not even Stella,” he confirms. And then, with a laugh, “You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

Rosaline’s heart beats faster and faster and faster, until she can’t tell if it’s fear or trepidation, until she accepts this moment for what it is, until she welcomes this shift in their relationship. She can’t pinpoint the moment when he stopped being an enemy, or when he became more than a friend; she can’t tell when her own feelings for him grew into something else; but she can admit them now, to him and to herself.

She feels so light when she shifts so she can face him, one hand reaching for his face. His eyes are careful when they meet it, shining with the kind of vulnerability that only comes with a fear of rejection. Her lips brush against his for a moment, barely more than a second, before she smirks a little.

“You look at me and I’m helpless,” she singsongs against his mouth.

His answering gasp is nothing short of amazing, followed by a booming laugh as he grabs her by the waist and pulls her under him. Rosaline’s shriek turns into breathless giggles when he starts tickling her sides. She kicks his legs away until she gives up, until he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.


End file.
